


Raising Company Morale

by mistresscurvy



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscurvy/pseuds/mistresscurvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ray is a computer programmer, Brad is his project manager and Nate is the business consultant trying to save them from Encino Man. An office AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raising Company Morale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainsiri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsiri/gifts).



> Thank you so so much to my fabulous readers and betas: littlemousling, rivers_bend, amazonziti and linaerys. ♥ ♥ ♥

Nate can't put his finger on what about this job perplexes him the most.

To be fair, it's not like his choices are limited. He was brought in to do what he does best—observe how a team is working on a project that's not going the way it should, diagnose the problem, and facilitate whatever changes are necessary to break through. He'd been briefed by the Assistant Vice President on management's expectations of the project manager and his team, and from what he had been told, he was expecting to meet a group of undermotivated slackers who don't appreciate the importance of this client and their exacting standards.

This is not precisely what Nate finds.

It takes him approximately fifteen minutes of observing the team and their work to determine that while they are loud and irreverent and spastic, to put it mildly, as far as Nate can tell the actual work product is excellent and timely and clever, if not exactly what the client asked for and which the company was contracted to provide.

It takes him approximately two minutes of actually talking with the lead programmer to discover that this is because, in said lead programmer's frank opinion, the entire project is bullshit.

"It's a total timesuck of an idea, is the thing, and it's not even worth anything. They think they know what they want, only they're wrong since no one actually needs what they're asking for, and even if someone _did_ need it they'd still be fucked, since they're asking us to go about it in the most indirect and clumsy and fucking stupid way imaginable. It's like spending four hours trying to get a B-level chick into bed and another two hours hunting around for her fucking clit before you find out that you can't even fucking get some because your own dick was cut off in a freak kitchen accident that morning," Ray says, eyes locked on his screen as he works on the timesuck database in question. "Not that I'd expect you to understand the pain and suffering involved in chatting up a fucking B-level, of course, Mr. Fick."

"Call me Nate," he says, inwardly surprised at just how willing Ray is to share his opinion of the project. Normally Nate has to be far more patient to get such a blunt verdict on a project's worth from an employee. And usually the metaphors are a bit less graphic. "So then what are you actually doing on the project?"

"The best fucking work I can do on a worthless project. I can program rings around anyone else and I take pride in my fucking work," Ray says. "I'm just trying to explain why our output isn't meeting the _expected measures_ or whatever the fuck corporate lingo you want to use to say it isn't working. The project doesn't look the way that they want it to because it isn't fucking possible, and even if it were they'd be morons to want it. Which they are, so you can see our problem. And no can do on the first name thing, you're either Mr. Fick or Sir, Sir. Iceman's orders. Gotta maintain our respect for authority and professional superiors."

"Except for when you're calling your bosses and clients morons," Nate says mildly.

"Oh no, they don't count. We've got confirmation that calling them morons is a factual statement, not a derogatory slur—who the fuck do you think I am?—but you, the jury's still out. And given that you're actually talking to me and not just taking Encino Man's word on the situation, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Sir."

"As much as it pains me to say this, Ray's descriptions of the situation at hand, while crude, are completely accurate." Nate turns around to see a tall man in an immaculate suit holding a cup of coffee. His eyes are blue and steady on Nate's, and his entire presence screams competence. Nate can’t take his eyes off of him.

After a moment he holds out his hand. "You must be Brad. I'm Nate Fick."

Brad takes it and shakes it firmly. "Well, you're more observant than most of the monkeys they send down to evaluate us, I'll grant you that."

"Given the general opinion of outsiders around here, I'm not sure how much of a compliment that actually is," Nate replies easily.

Aside from a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth, Brad doesn't noticeably respond to that at all. "I'm not sure either yet, although my estimation is improving as we speak." Brad’s eyes on Nate are assessing, knowing, his gaze focused and impossible to look away from.

Nate lets himself smile a little in response and isn't surprised when Ray interjects from behind him. "He's definitely better than Casey Kasem was, Brad, he actually asked me a question and then pretended to listen to the answer."

"An unhousebroken lapdog is better than that fuckwit, Person, don't insult Mr. Fick like that," Brad says, inclining his head towards the office at the end of the hall. "Now that you've gotten the uncensored history of events from Ray, why don't you follow me and we can see if between the two of us we can save our team from getting killed in two weeks when the client expects to receive the impossible to do the pointless."

"Fat chance of that," Ray calls out after them as he turns up the music coming from his computer speakers.

"Keep playing country and you won't live that long," Brad says, and Nate sees him really smile for the first time when Ray swears and skips a song.

* * *

Normally when he's sent to help a team, the manager in charge spends most of his or her time trying to impress Nate, as if he'll be so dazzled by the picture painted for him that he won't bother to mention the fact that everyone is discontent and unproductive to the higher ups. Nate is unsurprisingly good at spotting when someone is trying to bargain with him by selling the rest of a team down the river, and it never works.

This, however, is completely different. If Brad is trying to play him about anything involving his team or the company as a whole, Nate can't see it, and he also can't figure out the angle even if he were. It isn't clear that Brad really _wants_ anything, other than to be left alone and to manage his people himself, and as far as Nate can tell, when he's allowed to do that, everyone is happy.

Everyone, that is, who isn't management. Nate finds himself in the uncomfortable spot of wanting to protect the team from the rest of the company, which is neither a tenable position for him to take nor one he's ever found himself in before. He's always the link, always the navigator who problem solves for both sides while making them think that he's really working for them; that's how this job _works._ He's never had to pretend to care as much about the interests of the company as a whole as he does about specific teams.

It's hard not to take sides when he can see the impact of one side fucking up over and over again.

"If they wanted a bunch of code monkeys who would never actually question anything or _think_ or tell them that they're being stupid if they try to use us for bullshit like this, they should have just hired actual fucking _monkeys,_ " Ray says, throwing himself back into his chair after a roundtable meeting led by Encino Man. "Because this shit is fucked, and right now instead of daydreaming about being balls deep in Walt's ass I'm fantasizing that someone outside of this room will ever listen to me about, you know, shit I'm an expert of, if I do say so myself and I motherfucking _do._ And that bullshit is not fucking on." He twirls around in his chair and gazes at Walt mournfully. "I should never be thinking about work when I could be thinking about Walt's tight little boypussy."

"Understood, Ray," Brad says, voice clipped and posture tight. He looks at Nate steadily. "I'd apologize for my team's language again, but somehow after the meeting you just observed I don't think you give a fuck."

Nate shakes his head. "Ray's not saying anything I haven't heard before, if never quite so colorfully." Or with as good cause.

Ray whoops, leaning back in his chair and spinning around in it faster and faster. "See, at least Mr. Fick here appreciates the skill that goes into storytelling like mine. That's one good thing that's come out of today. I'm thinking positive, Rudy, you see this shit?"

"I do, my brother," Rudy says serenely from his corner cube. "It's going to make a real difference to your blood pressure. And your skin's gonna start to glow."

Ray halts the dizzying motion of his chair and holds out his arms. "Well thank god for that! Walt deserves to bend over for someone with beautiful skin who won't collapse from hypertension any time soon. So that's a relief." Walt rolls his eyes at this while giving Ray the finger, although Nate notices that his skin is a little pink.

"Okay," Brad suddenly says, voice raised just a touch but his team reacts as if he's yelling, going still and eyes on him instantly. "We're done with this for today. It's Thursday night. Any of you boys going to try to pussy out of tonight?" No one says a word, Ray shaking his head back and forth vigorously. Brad's eyes flick over to Nate's. "You up for a little pool, sir?"

Nate knows he's probably being baited, or played, or at the very least that something's going on here that he can't see. He doesn't give a shit. "Let me get my coat."

* * *

Nate hasn't been to this particular bar in the East Village before, but it's not that different from most self-conscious hipster hangouts with a couple of pool tables and a dart board in the back. They make their way back through the Thursday night crowd, Nate attempting to avoid the dudebros with pints who are never as aware of what their drinks are doing as they should be.

Once they get to the pool tables, Ray comes back to life, circling around the left-most table and drifting his hands just above the felt, never making contact but caressing it through the air. "Hello, sweetheart. How's Ray's best girl today, hmmmm? You ready to spread your legs for me?"

"Ray, stop including us in your primary relationship, it's fucking uncomfortable to watch. That shit should be private," Brad says, shrugging his suit jacket off and draping it over a chair before undoing his cuff links.

"Our love has to be carried out in public, Brad, due to her employment. But that's all right, baby, I don't hold the thousands of other men who've had their hands all over you against you. I know who your daddy is," Ray adds, kissing his fingertips and touching them down lightly on the table.

"Oh, this is just embarrassing, what the white man is capable of."

"Poke!" Ray calls out, leaving his mistress for a moment to walk over to a newcomer and give him a fistbump. "Don't you be mocking my special relationship, not all of us can have Teresa waiting at home."

"Not a one of you fuckers deserves to have such a lady waiting at home," Poke corrects him, eyes narrowing.

"That's what I meant!" Ray beams back up at him, holding his hands out to his side when Poke shakes his head. "What? I know my place in this world. You've explained it to me often enough."

Poke rolls his eyes and turns away from Ray, circling around the group and greeting everyone in turn. When he gets to Nate, he cocks an eyebrow.

"We got new blood this week, Brad?"

Suddenly Brad is at Nate's right elbow, standing slightly behind him and just a bit closer than is strictly necessary even in a crowded bar. "This is Nate Fick, who's doing an admirable job of preventing management from completely destroying the effectiveness of my team while keeping the brass convinced that he's on their side." Nate doesn't let himself turn to Brad as he says this, schooling his features into a look of placid agreement.

He hadn't realized just how clearly Brad saw his game, or understood his goals. He wonders if the whole team knew before this moment, or if Brad was both sending Nate a message and letting his team know that Nate has their back.

It would be easier to figure out if he could pinpoint Brad's endgame. They don’t call him the Iceman for nothing, though.

Poke looks Nate over, sizing him up with an exaggerated lean back, hand to his chin. "Can he play, bro?"

Nate can hear the slightest tell of a smile in Brad's voice. "Why don't you find out and see."

He looks over at Brad, eyes immediately locking with his, and smiles a little himself. Nate's no shark, but he’s pretty sure he’s up to the challenge these guys will present, and he’s right. Nate loses to Rudy but beats Ray, Walt and Poke, making a couple of tricky shots in the last game to pull out a win after a disastrous break. Poke takes it well, whistling at Nate as they back up against the wall to watch Ray attempt to both beat Walt and flirt with him ineptly.

"All right, for management you can play, I can respect that," Poke says. He points at Nate's face. "But don't think I'll be letting you win next week or nothing. I just didn't want to embarrass you here on your first time out."

"I appreciate the consideration," Nate says straight-faced, taking a pull from his beer. They watch in silence for a few moments, hooting when Ray almost scratches because he's too busy describing how he's going to bend Walt over the pool table and have the greatest threesome of all time to actually set up his shot.

"That asshole is the smartest moron I've ever seen. If he wasn't a genius he'd be dead," Poke says, a look of incredulous joy on his face as Ray attempts to explain that it's all part of his grand plan to get a pity fuck out of Walt, since he won't give it up for Ray's charms.

"How do you know these guys?" Nate asks, eyes flicking over to where Brad is leaning up against the wall, his gaze intent not on Ray's efforts but on Nate.

"Used to work with them, before I fucking grew a pair and got out on my own," Poke says, pitching his voice just high enough for Brad to hear him. Brad takes the bait, sauntering over to them.

"I keep telling you, Espera, it's all about timing. What I'm planning doesn't happen overnight."

Poke points at Brad in mock outrage, eyes firm on Nate's face. "See, this cocky motherfucking bullshit would be outrageous if he wasn't always _right._ Well, you know where to find me when you decide it's time to take over the world," he says to Brad, putting down his beer. "I gotta take a piss."

Poke heads off to the men's room, leaving Nate standing alone with Brad. Rudy's off near one of the other pool tables talking with one of the only women who doesn't seem completely unwilling to overhear Ray's version of a seduction speech for a chance to chat up Rudy. From the animated gestures of Rudy's arms, Nate can only conclude that Rudy's explaining the extensive benefits of flax seed oil or something else equally stimulating. His companion seems riveted, but that may have more to do with Rudy's biceps than the topic at hand. Nate doesn't judge.

He glances at Brad and, at finding Brad already watching him, decides it's time to go on the offensive for a change. "How'd you know I could play?"

Brad's mouth quirks into a tiny grin. "How do you know I did?"

Nate shrugs. "You set me up to Poke. Either you knew I could play and wouldn't drag down the evening, or you were bringing me out for a beating. And I don't think you're quite confident enough in my support of your team to throw me under the bus like that."

The grin on Brad's face widens, and he takes a moment before answering Nate. "You wouldn't have said yes if you couldn't play."

"Could have just been trying to further my analysis of your team," Nate throws back.

The smile falls off Brad's face, replaced by something much more knowing. "You're not here for work, Nate." Brad finishes the rest of his beer before looking back at Nate. "You know what you need to know about us. And for the record," he says, pushing off from the wall and walking over to the table where Walt has just sunk the eight ball and put Ray out of his misery, "I'm completely confident in your support of me. And my team." He picks up his cue. "Ready to play?"

* * *

Brad may be assured of Nate's high opinion of his leadership, but that doesn't mean that the next step is any clearer to Nate. He's still mulling it over when he gets home after they finally leave the bar around 1 a.m.

Short of miraculously convincing management to stop taking on projects before running it past the programming team to find out whether the project is even worth doing, Nate isn't actually convinced that there's a good solution to any of it. Tonight was what the team needed, a little time to blow off steam and bond and remember that they don't hate each other, just the brass, but at 10 a.m. Friday morning the same difficulties will remain. The guys are too talented for this sort of bullshit, and Nate's beginning to wonder what exactly Brad's waiting for, if Poke wasn't exaggerating his interest in striking out on his own. There's no doubt in Nate's mind that all of the team would follow Brad like ducklings after their mother.

Ray would probably need to be rescued from on-coming traffic fairly frequently, but that comes with the package. And Brad seems pretty adept at saving him from himself at this point.

Nate sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, disgusted at his subconscious for turning his—not colleagues, not really, his _assignment,_ his responsibility—into cute little birds, even for a moment.

But even that's better than what his brain wants to do with the image of Brad that feels superimposed behind his eyes, his posture and the way he moves when setting up a shot and, more than anything, the expression on his face every time Nate looks up to find him already gazing back at him, steady and calm and— _knowing._

He strips out of his clothes and collapses into bed, foregoing brushing his teeth just this once, hoping that he's still drunk enough to just pass out and not think about this any more than he already has. But he seems to be at exactly the wrong point for that, his mind zipping along faster than he gives it permission for, picturing what Brad must look like under his suits, what he would look like under Nate.

Nate groans a little and shoves his hand down his boxers, his regret at this mental detour disappearing completely once he's got his hand wrapped around his cock. He pushes his hips up, fucking his hand, the sheets already getting a little sweaty from the effort. He lets himself actually think about Brad, the way he looks at him and the way Nate can’t help but look back, always seeking him out when he’s in a room.

It takes him a little longer than usual to rev up to the breaking point, thanks to all the beer, but he doesn't waste the time, running his left hand over his chest and pressing down, trying to imagine how Brad's hands would feel on him, the force of his palms pinning him down almost as effectively as his eyes do. His hand is moving slickly over his dick now, sticky with pre-cum and sweat, and he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock every time he thrusts up, picturing Brad's open mouth and tongue, and he shudders, coming all over his stomach and hand.

He pants up at the ceiling, the sheets damp beneath his back, and eventually leans over to his side table to grab a tissue to clean up. His brain is finally quieting down, satisfied by the physical release inspired by mental images he's spent most of the last couple of weeks attempting to suppress.

This is why alcohol is dangerous.

* * *

Nate isn't entirely sure of what he's expecting from this Friday morning, but it’s certainly not the exact same routine as every other morning at this site.

And yet Ray hollers at him when he walks in, Rudy clasps his hand with a quiet, "Good morning, my brother," Walt looks up from his screen and raises his hand, smiling slightly, and Brad looks at him like he always does.

Nate used to have a much easier time not flushing under that gaze, he's sure of it.

He sets up in his temporary office, cracking open his laptop and looking over his report, trying to figure out how to massage the language so that it'll make the client happy and not get his— _Brad's_ —team totally fucked over. He can't tell if the fact that he is completely without hope of that being possible is due to his reluctance to help management at all or his refusal to undersell the team.

Either way, it doesn't matter.

He draws up a new organizational scheme that would give more power to Brad in deciding which projects to take on and creates a new oversight designation for Encino Man with the hope that maybe just a new title will be enough to distract him from the fact that he'll have _less_ input on the work done.

He used to feel better at 6 p.m. than he does right now. Of that he has no doubt.

* * *

When he walks in on Monday morning after a weekend of preparing himself to deliver a proposal that’s more full of bullshit than anything else he’s ever written in his career, Brad is waiting for him in his office.

"Good morning, Mr. Fick."

Nate looks at him for a moment before putting his laptop bag on his chair. "I think you can call me Nate, Brad."

Brad shrugs minutely. "If you insist. Although I won't be during our status meeting with the brass at eleven. Fair warning."

"What's going on, Brad?" Nate isn't sure he's up for this kind of thing this morning.

Brad crosses back over to the door and shuts it before turning back to Nate. "Today's your last day."

At first Nate can only stare at him. "Brad—"

He holds up a hand. "Obviously I'm not firing you. I _can't_ fire you, for one thing, and I wouldn't dream of doing so, even if I could. But the difficulties you've been contracted to resolved, ah, have been. Encino Man will see that clearly during the meeting."

"Exactly what resolution has been reached?" Nate's knuckles are white against the chair he's holding onto.

Brad shrugs. "Management is right about this project, we've been dragging it down, but now we can see that and make the necessary adjustments. It's all thanks to you, of course," he adds. "No one will be left in doubt of how this all came about."

Nate can only nod. "And what's actually happening?"

"We're finishing this project, exactly as they want it, and as soon as we deliver it to the client, we're leaving," Brad says calmly.

"So Poke was right then."

Brad looks at him steadily. "I've never hidden my long-term intentions for this team. The fact that management has absolutely no idea what to do with us only pushed up the timetable. And really, this is all due to you being here, Nate."

Out of everything Brad's said during this conversation, this is the least comprehensible. "What the fuck do I have to do with any of this?"

Brad smiles. "Come on. If you couldn't figure out a way to make Encino Man understand that he's sinking this entire corporation, I certainly wasn't going to be able to. It's not that I ever labored under the delusion that I worked for anything other than morons, but this whole exercise took it to a whole new level."

Nate swallows. "Glad I could provide such valuable support."

The smile on Brad's face falls a little. "Nate." He stops, looking about as unsure as Nate's ever seen him, which is to say only slightly less confident than his normal level of ultracompetency. "Your work is impeccable. It's no reflection on you that they can't actually accept any guidance."

Nate makes himself laugh a little. "Brad, I don't really need a pep talk about my work product from you. I know I'm good at my job."

The line of Brad's posture shifts a bit at that, making him even taller and more commanding. "Glad to hear it, sir. What are you doing for dinner tonight?"

At first Nate can only gape at him, his hands finding the back of the chair for support once again. "Are you asking me out?"

Brad smiles slowly at him. "That, or it could be a recruitment dinner, or both. I like multitasking."

Nate's body starts to move before he makes a conscious decision about what the fuck he's doing, walking out behind the desk and crossing the office to push Brad up against the door and kiss him. Brad's arms come up around his back, holding Nate firmly against his body as Nate grips his face and bites down on his lower lip. He grinds up against Brad's leg for just a moment, smiling as Brad gasps against his mouth at the contact before pulling back and adjusting his tie and jacket as he steps away. "It's a date."

Brad looks back at him, hair slightly mussed and cheeks with the barest hint of color and chest heaving up and down, which for Brad is the equivalent of stumbling around with his boxers down around his ankle and a tie still knotted around one of his wrists, in terms of lack of composure. Nate allows himself to feel pretty smug about it for the thirty seconds before Brad magically puts himself back together and opens the door to the office.

It isn't a surprise, exactly, when Ray whoops at them as they leave the office. It would be too much to expect that a man that smart and that lacking in self-preservation tendencies wouldn't take this opportunity. "So tell me, Nate, just how sweet is the Iceman's ass? Twenty dollars says it's like the ripest peach you've ever had."

"Stop talking now, Ray, or I'll tell Walt how to find the poetry you wrote about him that's encrypted on the server." Brad smiles pleasantly. "Oops."

"I, ah." Walt taps his fingers on the top of his monitor a couple times before continuing. "I found it last month, actually."

Nate has never seen someone's face turn quite that shade of purple before, but given that Walt's almost as flushed and smiling a little too broadly to be faking it, he's pretty sure Ray will survive.

* * *

In the end, Nate can't really consider this assignment to be one of his professional successes. It'd be hard to when management blames him for the fact that their four best employees all leave two weeks after his services are complete. That's not generally a marker of satisfied customers.

But given that he's the one who gets to strip Brad out of his suit and tie and fucking suspenders half the time at the end of the day, gets to lay out on their bed while Brad moves above him and over him and in him, deep and possessing while he tells Nate all about the job position that Brad's created just for him like some sort of guerrilla warfare recruitment tactic, it's hard to be dissatisfied with the results of the operation.

The best outcomes are rarely those outlined in a memo.


End file.
